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ᝰ.tagged .ᐟ SFW · gn!reader · modern!au · mostly simple & linear choices · you’re either in college or is working · reader personality & typing habits varies across all chats · some chats may contain suggestive/darker content/description (come on, there's lohen) · 💡 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝟎
ᝰ.a/n .ᐟ this is an old chatroom concept and i decided to rework the code in react for practice · let me know if you got to see varka’s selfie lol
.𓂃you texted person A (your friend) not knowing it was actually person B (your crush).
character list (in “person A → person B” format):
flins → varka / kaveh → alhaitham / lisa → lohen / neuvillette → wriothesley / varka → flins / wriothesley → neuvillette
💬 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: Genshin Impact now
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you dont have to be a parent to understand the horror of walking into a room to discover that the baby crawled out of his crib and onto that pottery wheel you forgot to turn off, and while the baby is spinning around and around, the dog is sitting there all calm, like a person, gently using his paws to fashion the babys soft cartilage head into something a little more modern. it might be the classic tale of bad parenting, but lets see where the dog is going with this
While im sitting here eating my leftover pasta on my 30 minute unpaid lunch break some other people just travelled the furtherest any human being has ever been from earth. welp
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”
“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”
You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”
You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”
“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”
You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”
He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.
diluc
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
He blinks once. Slowly.
“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
“Understood,” he mutters.
For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”
childe
He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”
You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”
“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”
wanderer
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”
He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
alhaitham
He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”
You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”
You’re still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
xiao
You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”
“I don’t.”
You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”
“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
“No one’s said that to me before.”
You blink. “Said what?”
He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”
There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”
ayato
He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”
His brows lift in faint surprise.
“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”
cyno
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
“That was…better than usual,” you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”
You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”
“…to keep telling them?”
He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
itto
You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”
A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”
You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”
You groan. He’s still grinning.
“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”
He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
kaeya
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”
A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.
“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.
You freeze.
He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.
“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”
And then he’s gone.
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”
You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”
baizhu
You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”
“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.
“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”
dainsleif
You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”
You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.
“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.
tighnari
You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”
“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.
“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”
You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”
You pretend not to hear. For now.
thoma
You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”
“Crispy like my smile, huh?”
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”
“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
“No, the gyozas!”
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”
“I didn’t—!”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”
heizou
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”
You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.
“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.
“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”
He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”
“You are the secret,” you call after him.
“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”
bennett
“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.
“Wait, was that about me?”
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”
He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”
He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”
“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”
You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”
“Most likely.”
“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”
“Perfect.”
kaveh
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”
You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
zhongli
You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
“Tea and regret?”
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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You're technically the chosen one. He's technically your villain. You're both technically terrible at your jobs.
w.c: ~18.6k
You're a hero.
Well, technically. The "technically" is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, much like how you're currently lifting your sorry behind out of bed at the crack of noon.
The whole hero thing started at the Harvest Festival three months ago. You'd gone because there was free bread, and you were a broke recent graduate with a degree in Infrastructure Management and dreams of a cushy desk job where the most exciting thing that happened was someone microwaving fish in the break room.
The plan was simple: eat the free bread, maybe some cheese, avoid eye contact with your aunt who kept asking why you weren't married yet, and leave before the ceremonial speeches started.
You did not achieve any of these goals.
Instead, the Goddess showed up. "Goddess" is a very generous term for what appeared to be a divine entity who had clearly been pre-gaming in the celestial realm. She materialized in a shower of golden sparkles that would have been impressive if she hadn't immediately tripped over her own robes and face-planted into the decorative hay bales. When she finally stood up, straw sticking out of her hair like a scarecrow, she squinted at the crowd with the expression people make when they're trying to read a menu after four margaritas.
Then she pointed directly at you.
"You," she slurred, her finger wavering in the air before stabilizing on your face. "You're the one. The hero. Gonna save... gonna save the world and stuff."
You had a mouthful of sourdough at the time. You tried to gesture to yourself in the universal signal of "me?? surely you mean literally anyone else??" but she was already conjuring a sword out of thin air. It manifested with a sound like a recorder having an existential crisis and clattered to the ground between you, glowing faintly with what you hoped was holy light.
"Defeat the great evil," the Goddess continued, now leaning heavily on a nearby festival-goer who looked equally confused. "The villain. Your destined nemesis. They'll show up. Probably. Eventually. These things are usually pretty reliable about timing. I'll tell him to get–" She paused, swaying slightly. "Wait, did I file the prophecy paperwork? I feel like I forgot the paperwork."
Before you could protest, before you could explain that you had student loans and zero combat experience and a very pressing need to not be responsible for the fate of the world, she vanished in another shower of sparkles. They spelled out "GOOD LUCK BESTIE" before fading away.
The crowd stared at you. You stared at the sword. Your aunt chose that moment to shout, "WELL AT LEAST YOU'RE DOING SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE NOW."
And that was it. You were a hero now. The responsibility of the world had been dumped into your lap like a cat who had decided you were the chosen furniture, and you had about as much say in the matter.
The sword came with a manual, at least. A manual that was written entirely in a dialect of Old Kingdom Common that hadn't been spoken in four hundred years, with helpful illustrations that seemed to suggest most combat scenarios could be resolved by "standing heroically" and "believing in yourself."
There was also a chapter on dental hygiene, which felt somewhat off-topic but at least demonstrated someone's commitment to holistic heroism.
You genuinely did not want any of this. You wanted that nice job in the big city. You wanted an apartment with functioning heating. You wanted a life where the most stressful part of your day was deciding between the good coffee place and the okay coffee place.
You wanted a life where you didn't have to mediate a dispute between two rival bakers who had somehow escalated their disagreement over sourdough starter techniques into a situation involving flour explosives, a catapult made from a bread rack, and what could only be described as tactical baguettes.
That incident had taken four hours to resolve and you'd gone home covered in yeast.
The thing is, nobody told you what you were supposed to be fighting against. The Goddess had been frustratingly vague on that point, probably because she'd been frustratingly drunk on that point.
You were supposed to have a destined villain. That was how these things worked. Hero gets chosen, villain emerges, they have dramatic confrontations with increasingly elaborate monologues, eventually there's a final battle, someone learns something about friendship or inner strength or whatever, credits roll.
But your villain had apparently missed their memo.
It has been three months. Three whole months of you waiting for some kind of dark lord to emerge from the shadows, some cackling mastermind to announce their plans for world domination, literally any sign that you had a narrative purpose beyond being the person who got pointed at by a drunk deity.
Instead, you'd helped an old lady find her cat. Twice. The cat's name was Princess Fluffybottom and she was not grateful for your heroic intervention either time.
You'd stopped a "robbery" that turned out to be a guy trying to return a book to the library through the after-hours slot but he'd gotten his arm stuck and panicked.
You'd been called to investigate a "mysterious dark presence" in the old mill that turned out to be some dude who was forty-three and had decided to take up poetry. He'd been very embarrassed about the whole thing.
And yes, there was the Santa incident. You didn't like to think about the Santa incident. The man had been very committed to his craft and absolutely determined to use authentic chimney-based entry despite being, in his own words, "a bit more substantial than in my younger years."
The fire department had been called. Your sword had been used as a lever. You'd received a fruit basket as payment, which felt like adding insult to injury.
Where was the thrill? Where was the money? The kingdom had promised "generous compensation" for heroic deeds, but apparently helping someone retrieve their hat from a tree didn't qualify as saving the realm. You'd submitted an expense report for the cost of a new pair of boots after the Princess Fluffybottom incident (she had claws, and she had opinions) and received a letter back explaining that "petty heroics" were considered "volunteer work" and you should feel "honored by the opportunity to serve."
You did not feel honored. You felt broke and confused.
Where was the grateful public? Where were the dramatic rescues? Where was literally anyone swooning and crying "Oh my god, my hero, you saved me!" with tears of gratitude streaming down their face while sunset light haloed around you both in a cinematically appropriate manner?
All you had was seasonal depression setting in as autumn gave way to winter, a sword that had seen zero combat and mostly served as an expensive coat rack, and a growing certainty that you'd somehow ended up in the wrong story.
Maybe there was another chosen hero out there, someone competent and enthusiastic, actually fighting some evil dragon while you were stuck helping people move furniture and occasionally rescuing livestock.
Your apartment was small and cold. Your landlord had looked at you with deep skepticism when you'd explained you were the chosen hero and would "definitely be able to make rent once the heroing started paying out."
You'd had to take a part-time job at the coffee shop just to afford groceries. The sword didn't fit in your locker, so you had to prop it in the corner of the break room, where it made all the espresso machines flicker ominously.
Your coworker keeps asking if you could use it to open difficult jars. You'd tried once, out of desperation and because the pickle jar had defeated you. It had worked, but the pickles had tasted faintly of holy judgment afterward.
This morning, you woke up to find a letter shoved under your door. Official kingdom stationary, sealed with actual wax because apparently the royal mail service was committed to being as inconvenient as possible.
You open it while eating cereal that was mostly dust at this point because you've been putting off grocery shopping.
The letter read:
HEROIC SUMMONS
Dear Chosen Champion,
Your presence is required at the Royal Palace for a matter of URGENT IMPORTANCE regarding your sacred duty. Please arrive by sunset today. This is NOT optional. Failure to appear will result in [the rest of this line had been heavily redacted, but you could make out the words "breach of contract" and possibly "cannon"]
Dress code: Heroic
Sincerely,
The Department of Heroic Affairs
P.S. Please bring your weapon
You look at the sword, still propped against your coat rack, gathering dust and broken dreams.
The sword looks back, or at least you felt like it was judging you.
"Okay," you say to your empty apartment, to the sword, to the universe that had clearly made some kind of cosmic filing error. "Sure. Why not. Maybe they're finally going to tell me what I'm supposed to be doing. Or maybe they're going to fire me from being a hero, which honestly would be a relief at this point."
The sword hums slightly, which it did sometimes. You'd stopped trying to figure out if it was magic or just poor craftsmanship.
You shove another spoonful of dusty cereal into your mouth and stare at the letter.
This is either finally the beginning of your actual hero story, or it's going to be another five hours of bureaucratic nonsense followed by being told to help someone find their lost dog.
You really hope it's the dog thing. At least dogs are usually happy to see you.
You arrive at the palace at sunset, which would be dramatic and atmospheric if you weren't sweating through your shirt from speed-walking up about seven hundred stairs. Whoever designed this place had clearly never heard of accessibility or the concept that heroes might have mortal cardiovascular systems.You were granted strength enhancement but this was honestly pushing even those limits.
The guards at the entrance take one look at your sword and immediately usher you through with expressions that suggest they're either deeply impressed or deeply concerned that you're going to accidentally stab something important. Given your track record, you can't blame them for the latter.
The palace interior is exactly as insufferable as you remember from the one other time you were here.
Marble everywhere. Gold leaf on surfaces that have no business being gold leafed. Portraits of royal ancestors who all share the same expression of vague constipation and superiority.
You're led through approximately fifteen hallways that all look identical, and you're fairly certain the butler leading you takes a wrong turn at least twice but is too proud to admit it.
Finally, you're deposited in what appears to be a receiving room. The Empress is already there, sitting on a chair that's trying way too hard to be a throne. She's wearing a dress that probably costs more than your annual income, and her face is arranged in an expression of someone smelling something unpleasant and suspecting it's you.
"The hero," she announces, like she's identifying a particularly disappointing species of mushroom.
Before you can respond with something appropriately respectful, there's a blur of movement and a small child barrels into the room.
The Prince. He's maybe seven years old and has a feral look in his eyes that suggests that he has just consumed his body weight in sugar.
"IS THAT THE SWORD?" he shrieks, making a beeline directly for you.
"Your Highness, please don't—" you start, but he's already grabbing for the blade with the self-preservation instincts of a goose with a death wish.
You yank the sword back, which causes the Prince to stumble forward, which causes him to tap his hand on the pommel, which causes him to start wailing like you've personally murdered his favorite pony.
The Empress is on her feet immediately. "You dare harm the Crown Prince?!"
"He tried to grab a sword," you say, bewildered. "A very sharp sword. That you asked me to bring. I was preventing him from—"
"NEGLIGENCE!" the Empress declares, because apparently logic is not a valued commodity in the royal family. "If you cannot even keep a child safe in a controlled environment, how can you be trusted to save the realm?"
The Prince is still crying, even though you can see his hand and there's literally no blood, not even a scratch. A servant has already rushed over with a silk handkerchief and is making soothing noises while the Empress glares at you with an intensity that suggests she has just found a reason to make your day substantially worse.
You open your mouth to defend yourself, then close it. There's no point. You've learned this about royalty: they exist in a reality where they are always correct and physics bends to accommodate their narrative preferences.
"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty," you say instead, with as much sincerity as you can muster, which is approximately none. "I will endeavor to be more careful with the extremely sharp weapon you specifically requested I bring into a room with an unsupervised child."
The sarcasm sails completely over her head, which is probably for the best.
The doors open again, and the Emperor enters. He's somehow even more insufferable than his wife, with a beard that's been oiled to the point of looking laminated and a walk that suggests he believes the ground is honored by his footsteps. Everyone immediately bows. You bow too, a half-second late, which you can tell annoys him.
"Rise," he intones, like he's granting you the greatest gift imaginable. "Hero of the Realm, you stand before us at a momentous time."
Oh good. Momentous. That's never a word that precedes anything convenient.
"Your sacred duty calls," the Emperor continues, really committing to the dramatic pause between sentences. "The moment has arrived. Your villain has been identified."
You perk up despite yourself. "Really? Where? What are they doing? Is it actual villain stuff or is this another situation where someone's just being mildly rude in public?"
The Emperor looks confused by your questions, as if heroes are supposed to just accept quest objectives without asking for details like video game protagonists.
"A shady company from the city has established a base of operations in the town," he says, pulling out a scroll. "They call themselves the Mostro Lounge. They deal in contracts and information. Clearly nefarious and obviously evil."
You wait for him to continue. He doesn't.
"That's it?" you ask. "They're a company? That's the villain?"
"They undermine royal authority," the Empress adds, still holding her dramatically distraught son who has completely stopped crying and is now trying to see if he can fit his whole fist in his mouth.
"They offer services that compete with crown monopolies," the Emperor says, like this is self-evident proof of villainy.
"They're very..." the Empress searches for the word, "...efficient."
You stare at them both. These people want you to fight a business. A successful business, by the sound of it.
Your destined villain, your prophesied nemesis, the great evil you're supposed to vanquish in single combat...is a company with good customer service.
"Right," you say slowly. "And how exactly do you want me to handle this? Do I fight their quarterly earnings report? Challenge their accounts receivable to a duel?"
"You will investigate," the Emperor says firmly. "Discover their evil plans. Stop them from whatever nefarious schemes they are surely plotting. This is your purpose, hero. Your destiny."
Your destiny is corporate espionage. Fantastic. Really living the dream here.
"And how do I identify who's in charge? Do you have any information about their leadership structure, their actual activities, any concrete evidence of wrongdoing that wouldn't be thrown out by even the most incompetent magistrate?"
The royal couple stare at you blankly.
"Just...go to the Mostro Lounge," the Emperor finally says. "You'll figure it out. You're the chosen hero."
You deeply, profoundly doubt that this is real villain activity. This sounds like the royal family is mad that someone is running a better business than their overpriced, undertrained royal establishments. But you're not getting paid to argue, and honestly you're not getting paid at all, so you just nod.
"Understood. I'll investigate immediately."
"Excellent," the Emperor says. "The realm is counting on you."
The Empress sniffs. "Try not to injure any more children on your way out."
You bow, grip your sword, and walk out before you say something that gets you thrown in a dungeon. The Prince waves at you cheerfully as you leave, completely untraumatized and already plotting his next attempt at grabbing sharp objects.
The Mostro Lounge is not hard to find. It's the nicest building in town that isn't actively falling apart, which makes it stand out like a diamond in a drawer full of lint. The door even has a handle that doesn't look like it will give you tetanus.
You stand outside for a moment, sword strapped to your back, trying to psyche yourself up for whatever "investigation" means in this context.
Through the windows, you can see it's busy. Well-dressed people are sitting at tables, drinking things that look significantly more sophisticated than the grain alcohol the pub near your apartment tries to pass off as whiskey. There's soft music playing. The floor appears to be clean.
This is your villain's lair. A nice restaurant.
You're going to have words with that Goddess if you ever see her again.
You push open the door, and immediately the atmosphere hits you. It's warm and it smells like good food and better drinks. The lighting is low and tasteful.
There's a bar along one wall, booths along the other, and tables scattered throughout. Everything is clean and elegant andfunctioning exactly as it should.
You feel immediately underdressed and out of place. Your "heroic" outfit is basically just your nicest shirt that doesn't have any stains you can't explain, pants that fit okay, and boots that have seen some things. The sword on your back kind of ruins any attempt at blending in.
A few patrons glance at you. One whispers to their companion. You catch the words "chosen hero" and "Goddess' Sword" and internally cringe at the nickname that's apparently stuck.
You head for the bar, because you need a drink and also because you have no idea what else to do.
Investigation. Sure. You'll investigate these bar stools. Very suspicious. Possibly evil.
The bartender looks up as you approach, and you immediately clock him as someone who is going to be a Problem.
He's tall, very tall, with a neat appearance that somehow manages to look both professional and vaguely threatening. His hair is slicked back in a teal color that should look ridiculous but somehow works. And hewatches you like he's observing a particularly interesting insect.
His smile is polite and sharp. "Good evening. Welcome to the Mostro Lounge. Will you be dining with us, or are you here for the bar?"
"Bar," you say, sliding onto a stool. "Definitely the bar."
"Excellent choice." His voice is smooth, cultured, with an undertone of amusement that makes you suspicious. "We have an extensive menu. Perhaps I could recommend something?"
"Whatever's strong and not going to bankrupt me," you mutter.
The smile widens fractionally. "Ah. One of those days?"
"One of those lives, more like."
He starts mixing something without asking further questions, his movements practiced and efficient. You watch him work, trying to figure out if this is villain-minion behavior or just bartender behavior. It's hard to tell. He's good at his job. That's not a crime, despite what the royal family seems to think.
"You're the hero everyone's been talking about," he says conversationally, not looking at you as he pours. "The Goddess' Sword. How exciting."
The way he says "exciting" suggests he finds that part of you about as exciting as watching paint dry, but in an entertaining way.
"That's me," you say flatly. "Living the dream. Saving the realm one stuck cat at a time."
"I heard about the Santa incident," he says, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now.
"Of course you did. Everyone heard about the Santa incident. I'm pretty sure there are ballads now."
"I particularly enjoyed the verse about the chimney structural integrity assessment." He slides a drink across to you. It's a beautiful amber color, with a twist of something citrus. It looks fancy. It alsolooks expensive.
You eye it suspiciously. "How much is this going to cost me?"
"Oh, this one is on the house." He leans against the bar, that sharp smile still in place. "Consider it payment for the entertainment value."
"I don't know whether to be offended or grateful."
"Most people who interact with me experience that dilemma. I've grown quite fond of it."
You take a sip of the drink. It's incredible. Smooth, complex, perfectly balanced. This is a drink that knows what it's about. This is a drink that has its life together, unlike you.
"This is really good," you admit.
"I'm glad you approve. We pride ourselves on quality." He tilts his head slightly. "So what brings the realm's chosen champion to our humble establishment? Surely not just the drinks."
You debate lying. You're not really good at lying. Your face does this thing where it betrays you immediately. Also, you're tired, and this drink is really good, and you've been holding in about three months of frustration.
"The royal family thinks you're evil," you say bluntly. "They sent me to investigate. Something about shady business practices and undermining authority."
You expect him to be offended, or defensive, or at least surprised. Instead, his smile grows. He looks absolutely delighted.
"How fascinating," he says. "And what do you think?"
"I think you're a successful business and they're mad about the competition. I think 'evil' is a strong word for 'has better customer service than the crown establishments.' I think I'm supposed to be fighting dark lords and saving kingdoms, not investigating whether your cocktails are too reasonably priced."
He laughs. "You're more perceptive than expected. Tell me, do you always announce your investigative purposes to your subjects of investigation?"
"I'm bad at my job," you say, taking another sip. "In case that wasn't abundantly clear from my entire existence."
"On the contrary. I find your honesty refreshing." He glances toward the back. "Though I suspect you'll want to speak with my employer. He handles these sorts of delicate situations."
"Your employer?"
"The owner of the Mostro Lounge. He's much better at explaining our business model than I am. I'm merely here to serve drinks and observe the fascinating behavior of our patrons."
The way he says "fascinating behavior" while looking directly at you makes it very clear you're currently the most fascinating behavior in the establishment.
"Wait here," he says.
He disappears through a door behind the bar, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your surprisingly excellent cocktail. You look around the lounge again. Everyone seems happy. There's laughter from one of the booths. A couple is sharing dessert. Someone in the corner is reading what looks like a contract, but they seem pleased about it.
This is the evilest place you've ever seen, clearly. Truly nefarious. Someone might get a good deal on a business arrangement. The horror.
The bartender returns, and he's not alone.
The man who follows him is...
You forget how to breathe for a second.
He's beautiful. That's the first thing your brain manages to process. Beautiful in a way that should be illegal, or at least come with a warning label. Silver hair, impeccably styled. A suit that fits him like it was painted on. Glasses that somehow make him look both intelligent and extra pretty.
He's shorter than the bartender, but he carries himself with the confidence of someone who will never lose a good deal. When he smiles at you, it's calculated and charming and you can feel your brain cells abandoning ship.
"Good evening," he says, and his voice is smooth like honey, like expensive silk, like every poor financial decision you've ever made. "I'm told you'd like to speak with me."
This man could convince people to invest in underwater basket weaving franchises. He could sell sand in a desert. He could probably talk you into giving him your rent money and you'd thank him for the opportunity.
You've always been weak to pretty people in glasses. It's been a problem since university. This man is hitting every single one of your poorly-defended weak points and he hasn't even done anything yet.
"I, uh," you say eloquently. "Yes. Speaking. We should do that. The speaking thing."
His smile widens slightly, like he knows exactly what effect he's having and is filing it away for later use.
"Wonderful. Why don't we talk in my office? More private." He gestures toward the back. "After you."
You stand up, grab your drink, and try to remember how walking works. The bartender is watching this entire interaction with undisguised amusement.
"Fascinating," you hear him murmur as you pass.
The office is as elegant as the rest of the establishment. Dark wood desk, comfortable chairs, bookshelves lined with what look like actual books and not just decorative spines. There's a large aquarium built into one wall, fish swimming lazily through carefully arranged coral.
The man settles behind his desk, folding his hands. You take the chair across from him, very aware that you probably look like a complete disaster.
"So," he says, leaning back slightly. "You're the Hero of the Realm. The Goddess' Sword. I must say, it's an honor to finally meet you."
There's something about the way he says "honor" that feels gently mocking, but his expression remains pleasant.
"Only in name, buddy," you say, because your brain-to-mouth filter has fully abandoned you in the face of his bone structure. "The 'hero' part is technically true but functionally meaningless."
He looks amused. "I see. How unfortunate for the realm."
"The realm will survive. It's been getting along fine with me helping old ladies cross streets and rescuing cats. The bar for heroism is apparently very low."
"And yet you're here." He leans forward slightly, and you notice his eyes are a striking blue-grey behind those devastating glasses. There's a glint in them that makes you think of sharks circling. Intelligent sharks. With business degrees. "Tell me, what brings the chosen champion to my establishment?"
You probably shouldn't be this direct. You should be clever, strategic and gather information subtly.
But he's looking at you with those eyes and that slight smile, and you're not good at this job anyway, so you just say it.
"The Emperor sent me. He thinks you're evil. I'm supposed to find my villain, and apparently you're the best candidate because you run a successful business and that's threatening somehow."
You expect surprise. Anger, maybe. If you were lucky, maybe he’d drop some kind of villain monologue about his master plan.
Instead, his eyes widen slightly and his composure cracks just a fraction. A flush creeps up his neck, barely visible in the low lighting.
"Your...villain?" he repeats, and his voice has gone slightly higher.
You blink. "Yeah? That's the whole chosen hero thing. I'm supposed to have a destined villain. We fight, there's drama, someone learns a valuable lesson about the nature of good and evil or whatever. Standard prophecy stuff."
The flush deepens. He's actually flustered. Why is he flustered? You said villain, not something weird. This is literally the premise of your entire heroic existence.
He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses in what you recognize as a self-soothing gesture. "I see. And you believe that I might be this...destined nemesis of yours."
"I mean, probably not. You seem nice. Your drinks are great. You're clearly running a legitimate business. But the Emperor will probably pay me, theoretically, eventually, maybe, so I have to at least look into it."
He's recovered his composure somewhat, though there's still a tinge of pink on his cheeks. He steeples his fingers, regarding you with renewed interest.
"How refreshingly honest of you," he says. "Most heroes would have tried infiltration or subterfuge."
"I'm bad at subterfuge. My face does this thing where it tells everyone exactly what I'm thinking. It's a problem."
"I don't find it problematic." He smiles, and there's something calculating in it now. "In fact, I think we might be able to help each other."
"Oh?" You're immediately suspicious. This feels like the beginning of every bad decision you've ever made.
"You need to find your villain," he says slowly. "I have extensive information networks and resources throughout the realm. I could help you locate this destined nemesis of yours."
"And what would you want in return?"
"A contract." He's already pulling out paper, a quill. The movements are practiced. "I will use my considerable resources to find your villain. In exchange, you will owe me a single favor. One favor, anything I ask, within reason and your power to grant."
You should think about this. You should carefully consider the implications. You should probably consult a lawyer or at least someone with common sense.
Instead, you think about your bank account, which is tragic. Your job performance, which is abysmal. Your life, which is going absolutely nowhere. You have literally nothing to lose. Your heroic career consists of cat rescue and chimney incidents. This man is offering to actually help you do the one thing you're supposed to be doing.
Also, he's very pretty and you're very weak.
"Any one favor," you repeat. "Within reason."
"Within reason," he confirms. "I'm not asking you to commit crimes or betray your principles. Simply a favor. Help with something. Assistance with a matter. Nothing that would compromise your heroic integrity, such as it is."
The "such as it is" should probably offend you more than it does.
You look at the contract he's sliding across the desk. The terms are clearly laid out. There's even a clause about dispute resolution.
"What's your name?" you ask suddenly.
He smiles. "Azul. Azul Ashengrotto. And you are?"
You tell him your name. He writes it into the contract with a flourish.
"So," Azul says, tapping the paper. "Do we have an agreement?"
You think about the drunk Goddess. The annoying royal family. The sword gathering dust. The three months of going nowhere. The fact that you have rent due in two weeks and no idea how you're going to pay it.
You think about how you have absolutely nothing going on in your life. No prospects. No plan. No villain. Nothing.
You pick up the quill.
"Yeah," you say. "We have an agreement."
You sign your name. Azul signs his. The contract glows for a moment with a soft blue light, then settles into ordinary paper. Magic binding. Probably legally enforceable in ways you don't want to think about.
Azul looks extremely pleased with himself. "Wonderful. I'll begin investigations immediately. This should be quite interesting."
"That's one word for it," you mutter.
He stands, extending his hand. You shake it. His grip is firm, his hand soft. You try not to think about how nice his hands are. You fail.
"I'll be in touch," Azul says. "In the meantime, please feel free to visit the Mostro Lounge whenever you like. I'm sure Jade will be happy to provide refreshments."
"Jade?"
"The bartender. He's one of my most trusted associates." Azul's smile is sharp. "I believe he's already taken a liking to you."
You remember the way Jade had watched you rant, that amused glint in his eye. "I feel like 'liking' is a strong word. More like 'finds me entertaining in the way you'd find a clumsy puppy entertaining.'"
"Jade finds very few things genuinely entertaining," Azul says. "Consider it a compliment."
You're not sure you do, but you nod anyway.
As you leave his office, drink finished, contract signed, you can't shake the feeling that you've just done something either very clever or very stupid. Possibly both.
Jade is back at the bar. He watches you leave with that same amused expression.
"Do come again," he calls out. "I have a feeling your visits will become quite regular."
You don't know why that sounds vaguely ominous.
You step out into the night, sword on your back, one favor owed to a beautiful man in glasses.
This is either the beginning of your actual hero story, or the beginning of a series of catastrophically poor choices.
Given your track record, probably both.
You've had exactly three days of peace before the royal summons comes again. Three blessed days of sleeping past noon, avoiding responsibility, and pretending the contract you signed doesn't exist in a state of quantum uncertainty where it's both the best and worst decision you've ever made.
The letter is delivered by a palace runner who looks deeply apologetic about it, which is never a good sign.
You trudge back to the palace, up those godforsaken stairs, and get ushered into the same receiving room. The Emperor is there, looking somehow even more self-important than last time, which you didn't think was possible.
"Hero," he announces. "Your report."
"There's nothing suspicious happening at the Mostro Lounge," you say. "It's a legitimate business. Good drinks, clean establishment, happy customers. No evil plots. No schemes for world domination. Not even any mild tax evasion as far as I could tell."
The Emperor's face does something complicated. "Impossible. You must have missed something. They're clearly hiding their nefarious activities."
"Or they're just running a restaurant."
"A restaurant," he repeats, like you've suggested the moon is made of cheese. "No. No, they're too successful for that to be all. Too efficient. You must investigate further."
"Your Majesty, with all due respect, I've been there. I've talked to the owner. There's nothing—"
"I insist you return." The Emperor pulls out a small pouch. "Consider this an advance on your heroic compensation. Surely the chosen champion can manage a more thorough investigation."
The pouch hits the table between you. You can see actual cash through the opening. Enough to cover rent and maybe even groceries that aren't mostly dust.
Your principles have left the building.
"I'll investigate thoroughly," you hear yourself say. "Very thoroughly. The most thorough investigation."
"Excellent." The Emperor looks smug. "I expect a full report. Document everything. Find evidence of their wrongdoing."
You take the money and leave before he can add more impossible requirements. Your landlord is going to be so pleased. You're going to eat fresh vegetables and maybe even fruit. This is the high life.
Of course, this means you have to actually go back to the Mostro Lounge and pretend to investigate more, but honestly? The drinks are good, and you have literally nothing else to do. Worse fates exist.
You arrive at the Lounge that evening, pouch safely stashed in your inner pocket. The place is busy again.
You push through the door, ready to order something nice with your ill-gotten investigation funds.
The bar is occupied.
There's a man leaning over the counter, and your first thought is that Jade has gotten somehow more chaotic. Same height, same general build, but everything about him is different. His hair is unstyled, falling messily. His heterochromatic eyes (seem switched???) are fixed on a customer who looks like he's having the worst day of his life. His smile is all teeth.
"C'mon," the definitely-not-Jade is saying, his voice carrying a manic energy that Jade's careful politeness completely lacked. "You signed the contract. Says right here you'd pay within thirty days. It's been forty days."
"I just need a few more weeks," the customer pleads. "Business has been slow—"
"Nah, business has been fine. You've been spending money at the competitor down the street. I checked." The not-Jade leans in closer. "That's just rude, y'know? Making deals with Azul and then giving your money to someone else."
The customer is sweating. You watch this scene unfold, trying to decide if you should intervene or just slowly back out of the establishment.
Then not-Jade's eyes lock onto you.
His entire demeanor shifts. The predatory focus turns to something bright and interested, like a cat spotting a particularly entertaining bug.
"Ohhhhh," he says, abandoning the customer entirely. "You're the hero."
"Uh," you say intelligently. "Yes?"
He's around the bar in seconds, moving with an unsettling fluidity. Up close, you can see he's definitely related to Jade somehow—twins, maybe?—but where Jade was all controlled amusement, this guy is barely contained chaos.
"You got a sword," he observes, circling you. "A big one. That's so cool. Let's fight."
"Let's not fight," you say immediately.
"Aw, c'mon. Just a little fight. I wanna see what the big hero can do." He's grinning like this is the best thing that's happened to him all week. "Jade said you came in all mopey and sad. Bet you're better in a fight though."
"I'm really not. I've never actually used this sword for anything except opening cans."
He stops circling. Blinks at you. "Cans?"
"Pickle jars, mostly. Sometimes soup cans when I'm feeling fancy. One time a paint bucket that was sealed too tight."
The expression on his face is somewhere between disappointed and fascinated. "That's so lame. You're supposed to be a hero. Heroes fight stuff."
"Heroes are supposed to do a lot of things. I'm not great at any of them."
"Floyd," a smooth voice cuts through the conversation, and you've never been so relieved to hear someone in your life. Azul emerges from the back, looking immaculate as always. "Leave our guest alone. They're not here to provide you with entertainment."
Floyd. So this really isn't Jade. That explains so much and also nothing.
"But Azuuuuuul," Floyd whines, "they've got a sword. A whole sword. Just hanging out on their back doing nothing."
"Yes, well, not everyone solves their problems through violence." Azul adjusts his glasses, giving you a look that's apologetic. "I apologize for Floyd. He gets excited about new people."
"Especially people with weapons," Floyd adds cheerfully. "Hey, can I hold your sword?"
"No," you and Azul say simultaneously.
Floyd pouts but backs off, slouching against the bar. "Fine. Be boring. I'm gonna go squeeze the guy who's late on payments."
"Do try not to actually injure him," Azul calls as Floyd saunters off. "We need him functional enough to work."
You watch Floyd return to the still-terrified customer, your brain trying to process what just happened. "So that's not Jade."
"That's Floyd. Jade's twin brother. They're both deeply exhausting in different ways." Azul gestures to a booth. "Please, sit. You look like you need a moment."
You collapse into the booth gratefully. Floyd doesn't even glance your way to take your order. He's too busy explaining something to the delinquent customer with excessive hand gestures. The customer looks like he's praying for divine intervention.
You watch as Floyd leans in, all teeth and barely restrained energy. You watch as the customer goes pale, then nods frantically, pulling out a purse with shaking hands. You watch as Floyd counts the money with surprising precision, then pats the customer on the shoulder hard enough to make the man stumble.
"See?" Floyd says brightly. "That wasn't so hard. Come back soon!"
The customer flees.
Floyd pockets the money and catches you staring. He winks. You're not sure if it's friendly or threatening.
Azul slides into the seat across from you after dismissing Floyd to go do something that hopefully doesn't involve terrorizing more customers. He's carrying two drinks, one of which he places in front of you.
"So," he says, settling in with that calculating look you're starting to recognize. "Another mission from the Emperor?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You have the look of someone who's being paid to be here but isn't entirely sure why." His smile is knowing. "What did His Majesty request this time?"
"A more thorough investigation. He gave me money and everything." You pull out the pouch, letting it sit on the table. "He's convinced you're hiding something nefarious. I'm supposed to document everything and find evidence of wrongdoing."
"And will you?"
"Well, I just watched Floyd threaten a guy into paying his debts, so that's probably something. But also that guy did sign a contract and then deliberately spent money elsewhere, so I'm not sure where that falls on the morality scale. Is aggressive debt collection evil? Feels like more of a grey area."
Azul laughs. "I appreciate your nuanced approach to heroism. Most chosen champions are far more...binary in their thinking."
"Most chosen champions probably have actual villains to fight instead of investigating local businesses for the crime of being competent."
"Speaking of your villain," Azul says, leaning back. "I am looking into it. I have contacts throughout the realm making inquiries. These things take time."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." You sip your drink. It's excellent again. "No rush. Not like I have anywhere else to be."
Azul regards you for a moment, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the table. "Actually, while we're on the subject of your employment situation...I have a proposition."
"Another contract?" You're already suspicious.
"Nothing so formal. Just some small jobs. Errands, really. Things that would benefit from someone with your particular...official status." He adjusts his glasses. "I'll pay you, naturally. Fair rates. Probably better than whatever the Emperor is providing."
You think about your tragic bank account. Your empty pantry. The fact that your landlord has started giving you looks.
"What kind of jobs?"
"Simple things. Deliveries, occasionally. Escorting clients who need someone intimidating nearby. Helping resolve disputes that benefit from an official presence. Nothing illegal. Nothing that would compromise your heroic integrity."
"The heroic integrity that involves me taking money from the Emperor to spy on you?"
"The very same." His smile is sharp. "I appreciate the irony of the situation. Think of it as diversifying your income streams."
You should probably say no. This is definitely a conflict of interest. You're supposed to be investigating him, not working for him. This is exactly the kind of thing that would make the situation more complicated.
On the other hand, you have nothing to lose. Your heroic career is already a joke. You're bored out of your mind. The Emperor is paying you to pretend to investigate a restaurant. Your villain is apparently playing hide and seek across the entire realm.
Also, Azul is still very pretty and you're still very weak.
"What's the pay rate?" you hear yourself ask.
Azul names a figure. It's more than you made in a month at the coffee shop. It's more than the Emperor gave you for this "investigation."
"That's...very generous."
"I pay well for competent help. And despite your protests to the contrary, I think you're more competent than you give yourself credit for."
"I helped a man dressed as Santa get unstuck from a chimney."
"Yes, and I heard you did a full structural assessment to ensure the chimney wouldn't collapse during extraction. That's problem-solving."
"I accidentally made the Prince cry."
"The Prince cries if his toast is cut wrong. That's not a failure on your part."
You stare at him. "Are you actually trying to give me a pep talk?"
"I'm trying to hire you. There's a difference." He slides a paper across the table. Not a magical contract this time, just a list. "These are the current jobs I need assistance with. Look them over. If any interest you, we can discuss details and compensation."
You look at the list.
Deliver package to merchant in the east district.
Mediate dispute between two shop owners.
Escort a client to a meeting.
Stand somewhere looking official and vaguely threatening.
These are...incredibly reasonable. Almost boring. Definitely not evil.
"This is just normal business operations," you say.
"Yes. That's what I keep trying to tell everyone." Azul's expression is dry. "But having the official Hero of the Realm associated with these activities does provide a certain...legitimacy that benefits my operations."
"So you want to use my title."
"I want to pay you for the use of your title and your time. There's a difference."
"Alright," you say. "I'm in. What's the first job?"
Azul's smile is victorious and slightly smug, and you realize you've just agreed to work for the person you're supposed to be investigating for villainy.
The irony is not lost on you.
It's probably not lost on Azul either.
Floyd appears suddenly at your table, dropping a plate of food you didn't order. "Here. You look hungry. Also Jade says you're interesting now instead of just sad."
"I'm moving up in the world," you mutter.
"Eh, you're still kinda boring. But maybe you'll get less boring." Floyd grins. "If you're gonna work here, you gotta be more fun. Jade and I can help with that."
"I'm not scary. I'm helpful." Floyd's grin suggests he is definitely scary and only sometimes helpful.
You eat your free food, review your new job assignments, and wonder when exactly your life became a series of increasingly absurd events.
The first "job" Azul gives you is to basically just sit.
You're perched on the edge of his desk while he conducts a contract negotiation with a nervous merchant who keeps glancing at you like you might suddenly spring into heroic action. You're doing absolutely nothing except existing in the vicinity of the conversation, sword propped against the desk within easy view, occasionally sipping on a drink.
"As you can see," Azul is saying, his voice smooth as silk, "the terms are quite reasonable. A fifteen percent finder's fee for connecting you with the suppliers you need, and a small consultation charge for ongoing business advice."
The merchant looks at the contract. Looks at you. Looks back at the contract.
"And the Hero of the Realm endorses this arrangement?" he asks weakly.
You have no idea what this arrangement is. You've been sitting here for twenty minutes thinking about whether you should get a pet raccoon. You'd name it something stupid like Sir Fluffington the First (first of his name.)
"Absolutely," you say, because Azul is paying you and you're not about to screw this up. "Very legitimate. Much business. Wow."
Azul's eye twitches slightly at your eloquence, but he maintains his professional smile.
The merchant signs.
This happens three more times that afternoon. Different clients, different contracts, same basic formula. You sit there looking official and vaguely heroic while Azul works his magic with words and numbers. Your job is literally to exist as proof that the Hero of the Realm associates with the Mostro Lounge and finds nothing wrong with its business practices.
It's the easiest money you've ever made.
During a break between appointments, while Azul is reviewing paperwork, you finally ask, "Why do you even need me for this? You have Floyd and Jade. They're way more intimidating than I am."
Azul glances up, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Floyd and Jade are intimidating, yes. But intimidation isn't always what I need. Sometimes I need legitimacy and credibility. The stamp of official approval from someone chosen by divine mandate."
"The divine mandate of a drunk goddess who probably doesn't even remember my name."
"Nevertheless, you carry a title. The clients see the “Hero of the Realm” casually sitting in my office, comfortable and unconcerned, and they think 'well, if the chosen champion trusts this establishment, surely it must be reputable.'"
"That's diabolical."
"That's business." He returns to his paperwork. "Besides, Floyd makes people nervous in a way that sometimes interferes with negotiations. They're too busy worrying about their physical safety to focus on contract terms."
"Fair point. He did offer to squeeze someone earlier."
"Yes, he does that. Jade is better at the subtle intimidation, but even he can be...off-putting. You, on the other hand, radiate a sort of harmless competence."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment."
"It is. Harmless competence is incredibly valuable in my line of work. You make people feel safe while I make them sign things."
You consider this. "So I'm basically a very expensive security blanket."
"A security blanket with a legendary sword and a divine mandate. Much more marketable." Azul sets down his pen, regarding you with amusement. "You're also considerably more entertaining than a blanket. Floyd was right about that, even if he expressed it poorly. Also, how are your reports to the royal family going?"
You pull out your phone, open your messages, and show him the last report you sent to the palace runner who's been serving as your contact.
Day 7 of investigation. Everything's gucci. No evil plots detected. Drinks still good. Will continue thorough observation.
Azul stares at your phone. "You're sending them text messages."
"Yeah?"
"They specifically requested formal written reports on parchment."
"Which is insane. We have phones. We have technology. Why would I waste time with a quill and ink and paper that's going to crumble to dust in like fifty years when I can just send a text?" You scroll up to show him previous messages. "See? Day 3: 'I pinky swear I'm looking really hard.' Day 2: 'Still nothing suspicious. Did see a guy get really good service though. Might be evil? Unclear.'"
"And they accept these?"
"The runner screenshots them, prints them and delivers the photos to the palace, I think. Or maybe he just reads them out loud. I don't know. Not my problem." You pocket your phone. "The Emperor hasn't complained yet, so either he's fine with it or he's too royal to admit he doesn't understand how text messages work."
"You're either brilliantly subversive or magnificently lazy."
"Can't it be both?"
This time Azul does laugh, soft and genuine. "You continue to surprise me. When Jade first told me about the morose hero drinking at our bar, I expected someone far more...traditional."
"Traditional heroes probably have actual villains and don't have to work side gigs at the places they're supposed to be investigating." You shift on the desk, getting more comfortable. "Also traditional heroes probably don't send their bosses messages like 'everything's fine, definitely not getting bribed, trust me bro.'"
"You sent that?"
You pull up your messages. "Yesterday. Want to see the one I'm planning for tomorrow? I was thinking 'Investigation update: ate lunch at suspicious location. Food was suspiciously delicious. Very concerning. Will investigate dessert menu for further evidence.'"
Azul takes your phone, reading through your message history with an expression of mingled horror and delight. "You're going to give the Emperor an aneurysm."
"He's the one who sent me to investigate a restaurant and expected something to come of it. This is the natural consequence of his terrible decision-making." You lean back on your hands. "Besides, I'm technically telling the truth. I am investigating. I'm just also getting paid by you while doing it. Diversified income streams, remember?"
"I'm starting to think you're far more clever than you pretend to be."
"Or I'm just really good at accidentally falling into situations that work out in my favor." You watch as Jade enters with another client, this one looking much more confident than the previous visitors. "How many more of these do you have today?"
"Three more appointments."
"This is the best job I've ever had." You pick up your sword, examining it. "Sir Stabby here hasn't had to open a single can all week. He's living his best life."
"You named your legendary sword Sir Stabby."
"I named him that three days ago when my therapist suggested I try bonding with my heroic accessories. She thought it might help with my imposter syndrome." You pat the sword. "It did not help. But the name stuck."
Azul pinches the bridge of his nose, but he's smiling. "You're seeing a therapist about being a chosen hero."
"The Goddess dumped world-saving responsibility on me during a harvest festival and then disappeared. You're damn right I'm in therapy. My sessions are every Sunday at four."
"Does the kingdom cover that?"
"Ha. No. The kingdom covers nothing. I pay out of pocket. Well, I did before I started working for you. Now I can actually afford it." You grin at him. "See? You're supporting my mental health. Very heroic of you. I should put that in tomorrow's report."
"Please don't."
"'Day 8: Evil businessman paying for my therapy. Unclear if this is a scheme. Will monitor situation while being mentally stable.'"
"I'm begging you not to send that."
You're definitely sending that.
Floyd pops his head in, sees you on the desk, and grins. "Ey, you're still here. Cool. You gonna be here tonight? Jade's making the good food."
"Define 'the good food.'"
"The stuff that makes people cry because it's so good. He only does it when he's in a really good mood." Floyd eyes you speculatively. "He's been in a good mood since you started coming around. Dunno why. You're still kinda boring."
"I'm growing on you though, right?"
"Like a fungus maybe." Floyd's grin widens. "But yeah, you're less boring than last week. Last week you just sat there all sad. Now you sit there all sad but sometimes you say funny stuff."
"Character growth," you say solemnly.
"I'll set aside a portion for you," Jade's voice comes from behind Floyd, smooth and amused. "Do you have any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?"
"Just responsibility and my will to live."
"Neither of those are foods."
"Aren't they though?"
Jade's smile sharpens with genuine amusement. "I see Floyd's assessment was correct. You are becoming more interesting. How delightful."
After they leave, Azul shakes his head. "You're going to fit in here far too well. That's either going to be wonderfully beneficial or absolutely catastrophic."
"Hey, I contain multitudes. I can be both." You slide off the desk to stretch. "Next appointment in how long?"
"Ten minutes."
"Cool. I'm gonna send today's report and then get back to being your legitimate business mascot."
You add a selfie of you giving a thumbs up with Azul's office in the background.
Send.
Azul watches you do this with the expression of someone watching a slow-motion disaster that's somehow working out fine.
"You're going to be the death of my reputation," he says.
"Or the making of it. Who knows?" You settle back onto your desk perch. "Either way, you're paying me, so that's Future Azul's problem."
The next client arrives before Azul can respond, but you catch the slight smile on his face as he stands to greet them.
You're starting to think this might be the strangest, most ridiculous job you've ever had.
You're also starting to think you might actually be good at it.
Sir Stabby leans against the desk, unused and happy.
The thing about Azul's contracts is that they're definitely morally bankrupt.
You realize this a few days into your employment when you're sitting on your designated desk spot, watching him negotiate with a merchant who wants to eliminate his competitor. Like he just straight up wants the guy gone so he can monopolize the textile market in the east district.
Azul doesn't promise to run anyone out of town. He doesn't promise anything illegal. He just quietly suggests that he has contacts who could inform certain regulatory bodies about specific building code violations. Or perhaps share information about inventory sources that might suddenly become unavailable. All perfectly legal.
You sip your drink and say nothing.
Because here's the thing: you have no affection for these people. Not really. The kingdom expects you to answer every ridiculous whim just because a drunk Goddess pointed at you during a festival. They want you to solve their problems, fight their battles, make their lives easier, all while paying you basically nothing and treating you like a combination servant-slash-divine-intervention-vending-machine.
So if Azul wants to help them get what they want through morally questionable contracts that they sign of their own free will? That's between them and their conscience. You're just here to look official and collect your paycheck.
The requests people bring to Azul range from reasonable business propositions to absolutely unhinged.
A woman wants to expand her bakery. Normal. Makes sense. Azul sets her up with suppliers and investors in exchange for a percentage of profits. Fine.
A man wants revenge on his brother for a perceived slight from fifteen years ago involving a goat. Less normal. Azul talks him down to a strongly worded letter and charges him for the therapy session. Weird but harmless.
Then there's the guy who walks in, looks Azul dead in the eye, and says, "I want to become more tall."
You nearly choke on your drink.
Azul doesn't even blink. "I'm afraid that's outside the scope of my services. I deal in business arrangements, not physical alterations."
"But you can do anything," the guy insists. "Everyone says so. The Mostro Lounge grants any wish."
"Within the bounds of reality and legal commerce, yes.”
"So you can't make me tall?"
"No. I cannot personally alter your height. If you're looking for divine intervention, I'd suggest the temple. Perhaps the Goddess will be sober enough to grant you assistance."
You have to turn away to hide your laughter. Azul's delivery is so dry, so professional, that it makes it even funnier.
The guy leaves disappointed but somehow also with a contract for custom shoes with elevated insoles and a recommendation for a tailor who can adjust his proportions through clothing. Azul makes money even on the ridiculous requests. It's almost impressive.
Then comes the hair incident.
You're mid-sip of your afternoon drink when the door slams open and a balding man rushes in with the energy of someone who's reached the end of his rope. He bypasses Jade at the front, dodges Floyd's attempt to intercept him, and makes a beeline straight for you.
You don't even have time to react before he's on the ground, clutching your ankle with both hands.
"PLEASE," he sobs. "HERO OF THE REALM. CHOSEN BY THE GODDESS HERSELF. YOU HAVE TO HELP ME."
You look down at this man grabbing your foot. Look at Azul, whose professional composure has cracked into barely suppressed panic. Look at Jade, who's appeared in the doorway looking fascinated. Look at Floyd, who's grinning like this is the best entertainment he's seen all week.
"Sir," you say carefully. "I'm going to need you to let go of my foot."
"NOT UNTIL YOU HELP ME." He's crying now. Actual tears. Over your boots. "I'M LOSING MY HAIR. MY WIFE LEFT ME. MY BUSINESS IS FAILING. YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE."
"I really don't think I am."
"YOU HAVE A DIRECT LINE TO THE GODDESS. YOU COULD ASK HER. BEG HER. GET HER TO RESTORE MY HAIR." He looks up at you with desperate, bloodshot eyes. "OR AT LEAST HOOK ME UP WITH HER. MAYBE IF I MEET HER IN PERSON SHE'LL TAKE PITY ON ME."
You stare at Azul. Azul stares back.
"I don't have a direct line to the Goddess," you say slowly. "She pointed at me once while drunk and then vanished. I haven't seen her since. I don't even know how to contact her. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember I exist."
"BUT YOU'RE THE CHOSEN ONE."
"Yeah, and being chosen has gotten me exactly zero divine benefits. No phone number. No prayer hotline. Not even a customer service email. I'm as disconnected from divine intervention as you are, buddy."
Azul has recovered enough to approach. "Sir, if you could please release the hero, I'm certain we can discuss your situation in a more dignified manner."
"I DON'T WANT DIGNITY. I WANT HAIR."
"Yes, well, assaulting our associate's footwear isn't going to restore your hairline." Azul's trying to maintain his professional tone, but you can see his eye twitching. "Please, let's sit down and review your options."
It takes another five minutes of negotiation before the man finally releases your foot. Azul guides him to a chair with the patience of a saint. You stay on your desk, rubbing your ankle where the guy's death grip left it slightly numb.
Jade appears with a fresh drink for you. "That was quite the passionate display."
You watch as Azul somehow talks the desperate man through his options. No, the Mostro Lounge cannot restore hair through magical means. No, they cannot arrange a meeting with the Goddess. Yes, they do have contacts with an excellent apothecary who makes specially formulated hair growth treatments.
The man signs a contract for a six-month supply of hair oil at what you suspect is a massively inflated price. He leaves looking hopeful. His hair is still gone. His problems are still there. But he has a contract and a bottle of oil that smells like mint.
Floyd has to physically escort him out because the guy keeps trying to come back and ask you more questions about the Goddess.
"Does that happen a lot?" you ask when the door finally closes.
"People grabbing feet specifically? No, that was a first." Azul returns to his desk, straightening his glasses. "People making unreasonable demands of someone they perceive as having divine connections? Constantly."
"Must be exhausting."
"Says the person who actually has divine connections and gets harassed about it regularly."
"Alleged divine connections. The Goddess could be dead for all I know. Or she could be getting drunk at a different festival right now, pointing at some other poor soul." You swing your legs. "Either way, I'm not hooking anyone up with her. I don't have her number and I wouldn't give it out if I did."
"Very wise." Azul is writing something in his ledger. "Though I must admit, the hair oil contract was unexpectedly lucrative. Perhaps we should advertise that we solve divine-intervention-adjacent problems."
"You're terrible."
"I'm a businessman."
"You're a villain," you say, grinning.
Azul's hand slips. The quill makes a long scratch across the page. He looks up at you with wide eyes behind his glasses, and his face does something complicated.
"I'm—what? No. No way. I'm not—" He's actually stammering. His ears are turning red. "That's not—I run a legitimate establishment. I offer fair contracts. People sign of their own free will. There's nothing villainous about providing services that people want."
You're too busy being amused by his flustered reaction to notice the way his voice cracks slightly on "villain." The way his hands fidget with his pen. The way he's looking at you like he's trying to gauge if you're serious or joking.
"Relax, Azul. I'm kidding." You take another sip of your drink. "You're way too organized to be a villain. Villains don't keep ledgers this detailed. They mostly just cackle and have dramatic monologues."
"Right. Yes. Of course." He's recovering his composure, though the pink in his cheeks hasn't entirely faded. "Joking. You were joking."
"Besides, if you were actually my destined villain, you'd probably be doing more exciting things than selling overpriced hair oil to desperate men." You lean back on your hands. "You'd have a lair. Maybe some dramatic lighting. Definitely a cape."
"I don't think I could pull off a cape."
"Everyone thinks that until they try. Floyd could probably rock a cape."
"Floyd would use a cape to strangle people."
"See? Multipurpose. Very practical."
Azul shakes his head, but he's smiling again. The weird tension from a moment ago has dissipated. You're not sure what that was about, but he seems better now.
Jade returns with the afternoon's appointment schedule. "The next client will be here in fifteen minutes. They want to discuss a business merger that may or may not involve blackmail."
"Allegedly involves blackmail," Azul corrects. "We don't confirm such details."
"My apologies. Allegedly may or may not involve alleged blackmail."
You settle in for another afternoon of morally questionable but technically legal business negotiations. Your phone buzzes. It's the Emperor's contact, asking for an update.
You type:
Day 16: Witnessed hair-related crisis. Subject continues normal business operations. No villainy detected except the price of hair oil. Capitalism remains the real villain. Investigation ongoing.
You don't notice Azul glancing at you when you mention villainy, or the way his fingers tap nervously against his desk.
You're too busy taking a selfie with Sir Stabby to include in the report.
The Emperor is going to love that.
You're sprawled in one of the booth seats, Mostro Lounge empty for its rare day off, watching Azul organize paperwork at a nearby table. The afternoon light filters through the windows, casting everything in a warm glow that makes the place look even more elegant than usual.
"So how does villain selection work anyway?" you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.
Azul glances up from his documents. "I'm sorry?"
"Like, heroes are chosen by goddesses and gods, right? Divine mandate, the whole pointing-at-people-during-festivals thing." You gesture vaguely at yourself. "So does the devil come and point at villains? Does he show up at like, evil festivals? The harvest of darkness or whatever?"
Azul laughs, surprised. "The harvest of darkness?"
"I don't know! I'm workshopping it. My point is, how does villain recruitment work? Is there an application process? Do you have to submit a resume of evil deeds?" You lean forward, warming to your topic. "Does the devil pay better than the gods? Because honestly, if I'd had a choice, I would've gone with whoever had the better benefits package."
"I don't think it works quite like that." Azul sets down his pen, looking amused. "From what I understand, sometimes the goddess or god who chose the hero will go to the villain's counterpart and inform them that their prophesied opponent has been selected."
You sit up. "Wait, really? They just show up and tell you 'hey, your nemesis is active, better start villainy-ing'?"
"Something to that effect, I believe. Though the phrasing is probably more dramatic." He adjusts his glasses. "It's meant to maintain balance. Can't have a hero without a villain, after all. The narrative demands it."
"That's wild. So the villain just gets a heads up? No ceremony, no drunk goddess, just a cosmic memo that says 'time to be evil'?"
"I imagine it varies by deity and circumstance."
You squint at him. "How do you know all this anyway? This feels like very specific insider information."
Azul doesn't miss a beat. "I've heard stories from heroes of other kingdoms. They pass through occasionally, share tales. It's surprising what you learn when you run an establishment that serves travelers and adventurers."
"Huh." You accept this explanation easily. It makes sense. The Mostro Lounge seems like exactly the kind of place where people would share stories over drinks. "Man, imagine getting that notification. 'Hello, your destined enemy is now active, please begin your evil plans at your earliest convenience.' Do you think they get a grace period? Like, can you tell the god 'actually I'm kind of busy this month, can we reschedule the eternal struggle?'"
"I suspect the gods aren't particularly accommodating about scheduling conflicts."
"Typical management. No work-life balance even in cosmic prophecies."
You're about to continue your speculation about villain bureaucracy when the front door slams open.
The hair guy from two days ago storms in, and he looks pissed.
"YOU," he shouts, pointing at Azul. "YOU SCAMMED ME."
Azul stands smoothly, professional mask sliding into place. "Sir, I assure you, all our products are—"
"I DON'T HAVE WAIST-LENGTH HAIR." The guy is red-faced, spittle flying. "IT'S BEEN TWO DAYS. TWO DAYS AND NOTHING."
"The product description clearly stated it promotes healthy hair growth over time. The recommended usage period is six months—"
"I DON'T HAVE SIX MONTHS. I NEED HAIR NOW." He's advancing on Azul, fists clenched. "YOU PROMISED. THE CONTRACT SAID—"
"The contract said exactly what I'm telling you now. If you'd read the terms—"
The guy lunges.
You're moving before your brain fully processes it. One second you're in the booth, the next you're between them, and your hand shoots out to catch the guy mid-lunge. You slam him down on the nearest table with one hand, the wood creaking under the sudden impact.
The guy wheezes, all the air knocked out of him.
Despite living like a depressed raccoon who survives on coffee and spite, the divine mandate came with some perks. Strength being one of them. You just never have reason to use it for anything more strenuous than moving furniture or opening extremely stubborn jars.
"No," you say firmly. "We're not doing this. You signed a contract. You didn't read it properly. That's not Azul's fault. You don't get to assault people because you have unrealistic expectations about hair growth."
The guy tries to struggle. You press down a little more. He stops struggling.
"You're going to leave now," you continue, voice calm and reasonable. "You're going to go home. You're going to use the hair oil as directed for the full six months. And you're going to work on your anger management issues because this kind of behavior is unacceptable. Understood?"
He nods frantically.
You haul him up by the scruff of his shirt like he weighs nothing. Because to you, right now, he basically does. The divine strength thing is weird. You don't feel any different, but your body just does things now. Things like lifting a full-grown man one-handed without breaking a sweat.
You walk him to the door, open it, and throw him out. Not hard enough to injure him, but definitely hard enough to make a point. He lands on his ass in the street, stares at you in shock, and then scrambles away.
You close the door, lock it and turn back to Azul.
He's staring at you with wide eyes, leaning against the table you used as an improvised restraint surface, one hand pressed to his chest.
"Are you okay?" you ask, crossing back to him quickly.
He doesn't respond. Just keeps staring.
You reach up, cupping his face with both hands, tilting his head to check for injuries. "Did he hurt you? Are you okay?"
His skin is warm under your palms. Very warm. His face is flushed pink, and his eyes are enormous behind his glasses.
"Azul?" You lean in closer, examining him. "Hey, talk to me. Are you okay?"
"I'm—" His voice comes out strangled. "Yes. I'm fine. Completely fine."
You're not convinced. His face is getting warmer by the second. "Are you sure? You're really flushed. Do you need water? Should I call someone?"
He takes a sudden step back, nearly stumbling. Your hands fall away from his face.
"I'm fine," he repeats, but his voice is higher than normal. He clears his throat, adjusts his glasses three times in rapid succession. "Thank you. For the intervention. That was very..."
He trails off, seeming to lose the ability to complete sentences.
"Very necessary?" you supply. "Because yeah, that guy was about to make some poor life choices."
"Yes. Necessary." Azul clears his throat again. He's not looking at you directly. "I should—we should close early. This is supposed to be our day off anyway. I just came in to handle paperwork."
"Right. Yeah." You grab Sir Stabby from where he's propped in the corner. "Want me to walk you out? Make sure hair guy isn't lurking around?"
"That would be..." He finally looks at you again, and there's something in his expression you can't quite read. "Actually, would you like to have dinner with me? Outside the Lounge. As a thank you."
You blink. "Like, dinner dinner?"
"Yes. If you're free. There's a restaurant nearby that I think you'd enjoy." He's fidgeting with his sleeve now. "Unless you have other plans. You probably have other plans. I shouldn't assume—"
"I don't have plans. Dinner sounds great."
"Really?" He seems surprised.
"Yeah, of course. Free food and good company? I'm not going to turn that down." You grin at him. "Let me just grab my jacket."
You retrieve your jacket from the booth, strap Sir Stabby to your back. When you turn around, Azul is watching you with that same unreadable expression.
You walk to the door together. As you reach for the handle, your hand brushes his. The touch is brief, accidental, but you feel him tense.
On impulse, you hook your pinky around his.
Azul whips his head around to stare at you, eyes wide.
You give him a questioning look, a small smile. Is this okay?
He doesn't say anything but he doesn't pull away
After a moment, you start to pull back, thinking maybe you misread the situation, but his pinky tightens around yours.
He leads you out into the street, your pinkies still linked, and you notice he's walking very carefully, like he's hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. When you reach his car—because of course he has a car, a sleek black thing that probably costs more than your annual income—he finally, reluctantly, releases your hand to unlock the doors.
You slide into the passenger seat. The interior is immaculate, leather seats and that new car smell. Very Azul.
He gets in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. His knuckles are slightly white.
You don't comment on it. Just let the comfortable silence settle around you as he drives, the city lights starting to glow in the early evening.
You don't notice the way he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you're not looking. Don't notice the way his face flushes every time you shift in your seat and your hand brushes near his on the center console.
You're too busy thinking about dinner and wondering if this restaurant has good dessert.
Sir Stabby rattles in the back seat as Azul takes a turn, and you're pretty sure even your sword is judging your complete obliviousness.
Azul had thought you were kind of stupid when he'd first met you.
The kind of person who walked into a potential enemy's establishment, announced they were being sent to investigate, and then proceeded to rant about their life problems to a bartender who was definitely going to report everything back to management.
Perfect, really. Easy to manipulate = easy to trap.
The Goddess had come to him three months ago. She'd been marginally more sober than her appearance at the Harvest Festival, but only marginally. She'd materialized in his apartment at three in the morning, scaring him badly enough that he'd fallen out of bed and nearly impaled himself on the corner of his nightstand.
"Azul Ashengrotto," she'd proclaimed, swaying slightly. "I have chosen your hero. They're...uh...they're somewhere. I pointed at them. Very dramatic. You should've seen it." She'd paused, squinting at him. "You're the villain. Destined nemesis. All that jazz. Good luck!"
Then she'd vanished, leaving behind the faint smell of wine.
Azul had spent the next three months preparing. Planning. He'd learned about you through his information networks. The struggling chosen hero. The one who'd been given a sword and a mandate and absolutely no support structure. Perfect. Vulnerable. Desperate for help and validation.
His plan had been simple: offer you a normal contract first. Something reasonable. He'd use that ro build trust and make himself indispensable. Then, when you were comfortable, when you relied on him, he'd introduce a second contract. Something that seemed beneficial on the surface. Something that would, in the fine print you wouldn't bother to read, transfer your divine powers to him.
Heroes were granted gifts by their choosing deities. Strength. Speed. Divine blessing. Power that could be channeled, manipulated, transferred through the right contractual language. He'd researched it extensively. He had three different versions of the contract drafted, each more subtle than the last.
It was a good plan.
And then you'd actually shown up at the Mostro Lounge, and you'd been...
You.
The plan had started fine. You'd ranted to Jade. Perfect. Exactly what he'd expected. He'd swooped in with the offer to find your villain, you'd signed the contract without really thinking about it, and phase one was complete.
But then you'd kept coming back. And you'd been excellent company.
That hadn't been in the plan.
You were funny in this existential crisis kind of way that shouldn't have been endearing but absolutely was. You sent the Emperor unhinged text messages and seemed genuinely baffled that anyone would use parchment in the year of our goddess twenty twenty-six.
You sat on his desk during negotiations and made his clients comfortable with your complete lack of artifice. You didn't try to be heroic. You just...were. Honest to the point of absurdity. Kind without expecting anything in return.
Azul had realized around week two that he actually enjoyed your company.
That also hadn't been in the plan.
And then there was the attraction issue.
Because you were quite attractive, he'd realized. In a scruffy, disaster-adjacent way that should not have appealed to him as much as it did. The way you sprawled in seats like you'd forgotten how sitting worked. The way you gestured emphatically when telling stories. The way you looked at him when he explained contract terms, like you were actually interested in what he was saying even when it was boring technical details.
He'd been managing the attraction reasonably well. It was fine. He was a professional. He could have aesthetically pleasing employees. This was normal.
And then you'd slammed that man onto the desk with one hand.
Azul's brain had short-circuited so completely he was surprised smoke hadn't come out of his ears.
He'd known intellectually that heroes were granted gifts. Strength was a common one. But knowing it and seeing it were very different things. Watching you move with that casual, effortless power, seeing you protect him without hesitation, the way you'd lifted that man by his shirt like he weighed nothing...
His mouth had gone dry. His heart had started racing. His very intelligent, very calculated brain had immediately supplied several thoughts that he would never, ever be able to repeat in a confessional.
Thoughts about what else you could do with that strength. How easily you could hold someone down. How it would feel to have that power focused on him but in a completely different context. Hands pinning his wrists. That casual strength keeping him exactly where you wanted him. Your body pressed against his with that same effortless ease...
Azul had shut that train of thought down immediately, desperately, before it could progress any further.
Because if he let himself continue thinking along those lines, he wasn't sure he'd be able to come back from it. He'd cross a line in his own mind that would make everything infinitely more complicated. He'd already crossed too many lines. His neat, organized plan had dissolved into whatever this was. This strange partnership where you worked for him while investigating him while he actively concealed his identity as your destined nemesis.
And now he was sitting across from you at dinner.
He'd suggested this. He'd asked you out. It had seemed like a good idea in the moment when his brain was still fuzzy from your hands on his face, your concerned expression, the warmth of your touch.
Now he was watching you read the menu with intense concentration, occasionally making small noises of interest at particularly appealing dishes, and he was having a crisis.
Several crises, actually. Layered crises. A crisis parfait, even.
Because he'd realized something terrible in the car ride over, with your pinky hooked around his and your presence warm and solid in the passenger seat.
He couldn't tell you he was your villain.
The plan had been to reveal it eventually, dramatically, after he'd secured your powers. To have that moment of recognition. To win.
But sitting here now, watching you smile at the waiter and order something that was definitely too expensive but you were doing it anyway because "he's paying and I'm going to take advantage of that, thanks," Azul knew he couldn't do it.
He couldn't stand the thought of seeing your expression change. Of watching the easy trust in your eyes transform into betrayal. You'd look at him differently. You'd realize everything had been manipulation and that he'd been lying from the start. That the person you'd been spending time with, working for, trusting, was exactly what the Emperor had warned you about.
You'd hate him.
And Azul was realizing, with dawning horror, that he really didn't want you to hate him.
"You okay?" you asked, and he realized he'd been staring.
"Fine," he managed. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," you said, grinning. "I try not to do it too much. Bad for the blood pressure."
"I'm not sure that's how thinking works."
"Bold of you to assume I know how anything works." You leaned back in your chair, comfortable and unselfconscious. "Thanks for this, by the way. I haven't been to a restaurant this nice since...ever, actually. My budget is usually more 'questionable street food' than 'places with cloth napkins.'"
"It's the least I could do. You did throw someone out of my establishment for me."
"I feel like that should be part of my official job description now. Professional people-thrower. Has a nice ring to it."
Azul laughed despite himself.
The waiter brought drinks. You immediately took a sip and made a pleased sound that Azul definitely didn't file away for later consideration.
"So," you said, setting down your glass. "Do you ever get tired of it? The contracts, the negotiations, the constant dealing with people's problems?"
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But I'm good at it. And it's satisfying to see a deal come together properly."
"You are really good at it. Like, scary good. You could probably sell ice to a snowman and make him feel good about the purchase."
"That's oddly specific."
"I contain multitudes. We've established this." You tilted your head, studying him. "Did you always want to do this? The whole business thing?"
Azul hesitated. This was dangerous territory. Too many honest answers led to questions he couldn't answer without lying. But you were looking at him with genuine curiosity, and he found himself wanting to answer anyway.
"I wanted to be successful," he said carefully. "To build something that was mine. To prove I could."
"Prove it to who?"
"Everyone. Myself." He adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit. "I wasn't...I wasn't always confident. When I was younger, I was different. Uncertain. I got overlooked a lot. Underestimated."
"Really?" You sounded genuinely surprised. "I can't imagine you as anything other than incredibly competent and slightly terrifying."
"I'm not terrifying."
"You're a little terrifying. In a hot way though, so it works."
Azul's brain stuttered. His face heated up so fast he was surprised his glasses didn't fog over. "I'm—what?"
"Terrifying in a hot way?" You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You know. Competent. Put-together. Kind of intimidating but in a way that makes people want to impress you. Hot."
He was going to combust.
The food arrived, saving him from having to formulate a response. You immediately dug in with enthusiasm, making more of those pleased sounds that were going to be the death of him.
Azul tried to focus on his own meal. Tried to remember his plan. Tried to figure out how to salvage this situation where he was supposed to be manipulating you but instead was having feelings.
Feelings. He was having feelings about his prophesied nemesis. The person he was supposed to defeat. The hero whose powers he was supposed to steal.
This was a disaster.
"Hey," you said suddenly, and he looked up. You were watching him with something soft in your expression. "Thanks for tonight. For real. This is nice. You're nice. I know I joke a lot, but I'm glad I met you. Even if it was under weird circumstances."
Azul's chest did something painful and complicated.
"I'm glad too," he said quietly. And he meant it.
Even knowing what he was hiding. Even knowing that this would inevitably end badly. Even knowing he was in so far over his head he couldn't see daylight anymore.
He was glad he'd met you.
And that realization terrified him more than anything else.
After dinner, you'd turned to him with bright eyes and asked, "Want to check out the night market? It's only a few blocks from here and it's supposed to be really good on Fridays."
Azul should have said no. Should have claimed tiredness, early morning obligations, literally any reasonable excuse to end the evening before he dug himself deeper into this complicated hole he'd created.
Instead, he heard himself say, "That sounds lovely."
Your enthusiasm was immediate and infectious. You'd practically bounced on your feet, grabbing his hand to tug him in the direction of the market, and Azul had let himself be pulled along.
The night market was bustling. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, casting everything in a warm glow. Stalls lined the streets selling everything from street food to handmade jewelry to questionable magical trinkets that probably didn't actually work.
You dragged him from stall to stall with infectious energy. Pointing out interesting items, haggling with vendors with surprising skill, making him try samples of food he'd normally never consider. You bought him a candied fruit skewer from a cart and watched with undisguised delight as he tried it.
"Good, right?" you'd asked.
"Surprisingly so," he'd admitted.
"See? I have excellent taste. Trust me."
The problem was, he was starting to.
You'd been walking for maybe an hour, weaving through crowds, stopping to examine interesting things, when Azul realized his feet hurt. His legs were tired. He'd been so caught up in watching you experience everything with that genuine joy that he'd ignored his own physical limitations.
The divine gift he'd been granted was intelligence. Enhanced cognitive ability, perfect memory, the capacity to process complex information at remarkable speeds. Very useful for contracts and business. Absolutely useless for stamina.
Meanwhile, you'd been granted physical enhancement. You could throw people one-handed and apparently walk for hours without getting winded. You probably could run a marathon and still have energy to spare.
Azul was profoundly aware of the disparity as he felt a blister forming on his left heel.
"You okay?" you asked, because of course you noticed.
"Fine," he said automatically.
You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "Azul. You're limping."
"I am not limping."
You looked down at his shoes, then back up at his face. "How long have your feet been hurting?"
"They're not—"
"Don't lie to me. You're bad at it when it's about yourself."
He was. He absolutely was. His carefully constructed composure worked beautifully for business negotiations but apparently fell apart when you looked at him with concerned eyes.
"Maybe twenty minutes," he admitted.
"Twenty—Azul! Why didn't you say something?"
"Because you were enjoying yourself. I didn't want to cut it short."
Your expression did something complicated. Soft and exasperated and fond all at once. "Okay, new plan. Piggyback ride."
"Because that's—I'm not—you can't just carry me through a night market."
"I literally can though. Have you met me? I threw a guy today. You weigh way less than that guy." You were already turning around, crouching slightly. "Come on. Up you go."
"This is undignified."
"So is limping around pretending you're fine." You glanced back at him. "Please? I don't want you to hurt yourself because you were too stubborn to accept help."
That did it. The genuine concern in your voice. Azul gave in.
He climbed onto your back with as much dignity as he could muster, which was approximately none. His arms went around your shoulders. Your hands hooked under his thighs, supporting his weight with absolutely no visible effort.
Then you stood up, and Azul's entire worldview shifted.
You carried him like he weighed nothing. Because to you, with your divine strength, he probably did weigh nothing. You adjusted your grip once, settling him more comfortably, and then just started walking like this was completely normal.
"See? Easy." You were grinning. He could hear it in your voice. "You good up there?"
"This is mortifying," he managed.
"This is efficient. Also you're warm. It's nice." You continued walking through the market, completely unbothered by the piggyback passenger. "Oh, look at that stall. They've got those glass figurines. Want to check it out?"
You kept talking as you walked, pointing out interesting things, maintaining a stream of comfortable conversation. Azul found himself leaning in closer to hear you better over the market noise, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder.
You smelled nice, he realized. Clean soap and something else, something that was just you. Warm and solid and safe.
He was pressed against your back, your hands secure under his thighs, and his brain was starting to make connections he absolutely did not need it to make right now.
You were strong. Strong enough to carry him without effort. Strong enough to hold him up, pin him down, maneuver him however you wanted. The thought that had tried to surface earlier came back with a vengeance.
What would it be like if you held him like this but differently? Against a wall maybe. Or on a bed. Your hands gripping his thighs for an entirely different reason. That casual strength focused on him with intent. You could probably hold him in place with one hand while the other—
Azul shut down that thought with desperate force, but not before his entire face heated up like a furnace. He was grateful you couldn't see him right now. Grateful for the dim market lighting. Grateful that you kept talking about something, he'd completely lost the thread of the conversation because his brain had mutinied.
Thank the drunk Goddess you couldn't see his face. Though knowing her, she probably could and was laughing at him from whatever divine bar she'd set up shop in.
"—anyway, that's why I think pigeons are government drones," you were saying. "I mean, has anyone ever actually seen a baby pigeon? Exactly. Case closed."
"You're ridiculous," Azul said, because he needed to say something, needed to ground himself in the conversation instead of the spiraling thoughts about your hands on his thighs and your strength and all the ways that could be utilized.
"Thank you. I try very hard to maintain my ridiculousness. It's a key part of my brand." You stopped at another stall, examining some kind of carved wooden trinket. "Ooh, this looks cool. What do you think?"
Azul forced himself to focus on the trinket. It was a small octopus, intricately carved. "It's well-crafted. Good detail work."
"Should I get it?"
"If you want it."
"But do you think I should get it?"
"That's a decision only you can make."
You turned your head slightly to look at him, and Azul realized how close your faces were at this angle. Close enough that he could see the exact shade of your eyes. Close enough that if either of you moved just a little...
"You're being very diplomatic," you observed.
"I'm a businessman. Diplomacy is my default state."
"Even with friends?”
Friends. You called him a friend. Something in his chest twisted.
"Especially with friends," he said softly. "It's harder to be honest when you care about the answer."
You smiled, small and genuine. "Yeah. I get that."
You bought the octopus. The vendor offered to put it in a bag, but you just tucked it into your pocket one-handed, still holding Azul up without any visible strain.
As you continued through the market, Azul tried very hard to focus on anything other than the warmth of your back, the security of your hold, the easy strength in every movement. He catalogued vendor prices. Mentally reviewed his schedule for next week. Thought about contract law.
Anything except the increasingly insistent thoughts about what else you could do with those hands.
He was failing spectacularly.
"You've gone quiet," you said after a while. "You sure you're okay? Not too uncomfortable?"
"I'm fine," Azul lied. He was extremely not fine. He was having a crisis. Multiple crises. The crisis situation had evolved into a crisis ecosystem.
"Cool. Because I was thinking we could stop by that dessert cart over there before we head back. Unless you're too tired? I can take you home whenever you want."
Home. You were going to take him home. This evening was going to end and he was going to have to go back to his place and think about everything that had happened and probably not sleep because his brain was never going to recover from this.
"Dessert sounds good," he heard himself say.
Because apparently his self-preservation instinct had died somewhere between the piggyback ride and the realization that he was completely, utterly, catastrophically in over his head with you.
You adjusted your grip again, and Azul bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
The drunk Goddess was definitely laughing at him.
You like Azul.
This is a recent revelation, or maybe not that recent. Maybe you've liked him for a while and just didn't have the vocabulary for it. But after last night, after carrying him through the night market and feeling him lean into you, warm and close, after hearing him laugh at your stupid jokes and watching him buy you candied fruit, you've come to a conclusion.
You really, really like Azul.
And you might be slow in some fields, but you're not completely blind. The way he flushes when you compliment him. The way he watches you when he thinks you're not looking. The way he'd linked his pinky with yours and held on. The way he'd melted into your touch when you cupped his face.
You're operating at a 99% certainty that he likes you too.
The remaining 1% is just residual anxiety and the general disbelief that someone as put-together as Azul would be interested in a disaster like you. But 99% is good enough odds to make a move.
So you buy flowers.
The florist seems bemused by your request for "something that says 'I like you and also I'm bad at feelings but I'm trying.'" She eventually sells you a bouquet of blue and silver roses that look expensive and smell amazing. Perfect.
You show up at the Mostro Lounge mid-afternoon, flowers in hand, sword on your back because you've given up on leaving it at home. Jade takes one look at the bouquet and his smile sharpens with undisguised delight.
"How fascinating," he murmurs. "Azul is in his office. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you."
"Thanks, Jade."
"Oh, no. Thank you. This is going to be incredibly entertaining."
You don't know what that means and you're choosing not to think about it.
You knock on Azul's office door. His voice calls out, "Come in," and you push through with your flowers and your determination and absolutely zero plan beyond "confess feelings, hope for the best."
Azul looks up from his desk. Sees you. Sees the flowers. His eyes go wide.
"Hi," you say. "So I know what's going on."
The color drains from his face.
You've never seen Azul look terrified before. You didn't think he was capable of it. But right now he looks absolutely stricken, standing up so fast his chair rolls back and hits the wall.
"I didn't—I didn't mean to hide it," he starts, words tumbling out rapidly. "I was going to tell you. I had plans to tell you. Multiple plans. It just never seemed like the right time and then things got complicated and I—you owe me a favor. The contract. You signed a contract and you owe me one favor so you have to—you have to forgive me. That's the favor. I'm calling it in. You have to forgive me."
You blink at him. "Azul, what are you talking about?"
He's breathing hard, hands gripping the edge of his desk. "The favor. I'm using it. You have to—"
You cross the room in three strides, setting the flowers on his desk. You grab his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. "Azul. Stop. What are you talking about? I came here to ask you out."
He freezes. Completely still. "What?"
"I like you. I bought you flowers. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on an actual date. You know, one where we both acknowledge it's a date." You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone. "What did you think I was talking about?"
His face is doing something complicated. Multiple emotions fighting for dominance. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I have to tell you something," he says quietly.
"Okay?"
"Something important. Something that might—definitely will—change how you feel about me."
You can feel him trembling slightly under your hands.
"Alright," you say gently. "Tell me."
He takes a breath. "I'm your villain."
The words hang in the air between you.
You wait for the rest of the explanation. He just stares at you, looking like he's bracing for impact.
Your mind goes through several rapid calculations. The Goddess had said you'd have a destined villain. Azul had known suspiciously specific details about how villain selection worked. The way he'd stuttered and flushed when you'd jokingly called him a villain weeks ago. The contracts. The careful manipulation that you'd recognized but hadn't really cared about because the deals were fair and you were getting paid.
It clicks into place with sudden, absolute clarity.
Azul is your villain. Your prophesied nemesis. The great evil you're supposed to vanquish.
You should feel betrayed. Any normal hero would feel betrayed. He's been lying to you from the start. He hired you knowing exactly who you were, probably with some master plan to defeat you or steal your powers or whatever villains do with their destined heroes.
You should be upset.
You should care.
You stand there, hands still cupping his face, watching him look absolutely terrified of your reaction, and you think about it.
The prophecy. The drunk Goddess who pointed at you and ruined your life plans. The Emperor who treats you like a servant. The kingdom that expects everything and gives nothing. The divine mandate that's done absolutely nothing except make you responsible for problems that aren't yours.
You think about Azul. Who pays you fairly. Who makes you laugh. Who let you carry him through a night market. Who gets flustered when you compliment him. Who negotiates contracts with ruthless efficiency but also bought you candied fruit and worried about whether you were comfortable.
And then you think: fuck it, we ball.
"That's it?" you ask finally.
"That's—what do you mean 'that's it'?" His voice pitches higher. "I'm your destined nemesis. The evil you're supposed to vanquish. The Goddess came to me when she chose you. I've been lying to you this entire time. I was supposed to manipulate you, steal your powers, I had contracts drafted and everything, and then I couldn't do it because I—because you—" He's spiraling now. "You should be upset. You should feel betrayed. Any normal hero would—"
You kiss him.
You lean in and press your lips to his, cutting off his spiral mid-sentence. He makes a surprised sound against your mouth, frozen for a moment, and then his hands come up to grip your shirt and he's kissing you back desperately, almost frantically.
You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, "I don't care."
"You don't—" he starts, but you kiss him again.
"Don't care," you repeat between kisses. "Not even a little bit."
"You should care. This is important. The divine mandate—"
You kiss him again, softer this time. "The divine mandate can go fuck itself. A drunk Goddess pointed at me during a festival. That doesn't mean I have to structure my entire life around fighting someone I actually like."
"You...like me?" His voice is small, disbelieving.
"Obviously. I bought you flowers. I carried you through a night market. I'm kissing you in your office right now." You smooth his hair back from his face. "Did you miss all the signs?"
"I thought you were just being nice. You're nice to everyone."
"I don't kiss everyone, Azul. It would be a problem if I did."
He's staring at you like you're something impossible. "But I was going to betray you."
"Were you though? Past tense. You didn't. You hired me instead. You pay me fairly. You take me to dinner. You let me carry you around when your feet hurt." You press a kiss to his forehead. "Doesn't sound like villain behavior to me."
"I had contracts prepared," he insists, like he's trying to convince you to be upset with him. "To steal your divine powers. I was going to trap you."
"But you didn't."
"I still could—"
"But you won't." You say it with certainty. "You won't because you care about me. Right?"
His breath hitches. His hands tighten in your shirt. "Yes," he whispers. "I care about you. Too much. I wasn't supposed to but I do."
"Then we're on the same page." You kiss the corner of his mouth. "I like you. You like me. Everything else is just details."
"These are significant details—"
You kiss him again, deeper this time, and feel the exact moment he stops trying to argue. His body goes pliant against yours, hands sliding up to your shoulders, then your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He makes a soft sound that goes straight through you.
When you pull back this time, he's breathing hard. His eyes are dark behind his glasses, lips slightly swollen, and he's looking at you like you've fundamentally altered his understanding of the universe.
"I don't care," you repeat softly. "About the villain thing. About the prophecy. About any of it. I care about you."
"You're supposed to be the hero," he says, but there's no conviction in it anymore.
"And you're supposed to be the villain. Guess we're both bad at our jobs." You grin at him. "We can be disasters together."
"This is completely against every narrative convention—"
"Good. Narrative conventions haven't done shit for me so far." You pull him closer. "So what do you say? Want to go on a date with me? An actual, acknowledged date?"
He looks at you for a long moment. You can practically see his brain working through all the implications, all the ways this could go wrong, all the logical reasons he should say no.
Then he surges up and kisses you again, fierce and desperate and full of something that feels like relief.
"Yes," he gasps between kisses. "Yes, I want—I've wanted—"
You don't let him finish the sentence. Just kiss him until he melts completely into your arms, until all the tension drains out of him, until he's clinging to you like you're the only solid thing in his world.
The flowers sit forgotten on the desk, blue and silver roses bearing witness to the moment a hero and villain decided that maybe destiny could go fuck itself.
Sir Stabby, propped in the corner, has seen some things today.
He's a good sword. He's not going to tell anyone.
Probably.
You send your final report to the Emperor three days after the confession.
It reads: Investigation complete. Mostro Lounge = legitimate business. No wrongdoing detected. Case closed. Please stop sending me on fake missions. I have a boyfriend now and would like to focus on that. Thanks. - Your Hero
The Emperor sends back a blurry photo of a very long letter written on parchment (because of course he does) expressing his disappointment and suggesting you conduct further surveillance. You delete the photo of the letter and don't respond. If he wants further surveillance, he can pay someone else to do it.
You wouldn't tell him even if Azul was committing tax fraud. Which he's not. Probably. You haven't actually checked. But also you don't care. The Emperor can hire an accountant if he's that worried about it.
Your heroic career continues in its spectacularly mundane trajectory. You help the old lady find Princess Fluffybottom again (she's developed a habit of escaping). You assist with traffic direction when a cart loses a wheel in the market square. You use your sword to open a particularly stubborn jar of preserves for the baker who always gives you free samples.
Sir Stabby has accepted his fate as a multipurpose household tool. He seems content.
The Mostro Lounge thrives. Azul continues his morally gray business practices. You continue to sit on his desk during negotiations, except now sometimes he holds your hand while he does it, which makes the clients very confused about your relationship dynamic. Jade finds this endlessly amusing. Floyd has started a running commentary.
"You two are gross," Floyd announces one afternoon, watching Azul unconsciously lean into your touch while reviewing a contract. "But like, entertaining gross. Keep doing it."
"Thank you, Floyd. Your approval means everything," you say dryly.
Life continues. Seasons change. You pay your rent on time now. Your therapist is very pleased with your progress. You've stopped having the recurring nightmare about being crushed under the weight of divine responsibility.
The next Harvest Festival rolls around.
You and Azul attend together, holding hands, browsing the stalls. You're wearing matching scarves that Azul bought because he has opinions about coordinating outfits. You humor him because he gets this satisfied smile when you wear things he's picked out.
The festival is in full swing when the Goddess appears again.
She materializes in the same shower of golden sparkles, except this time she trips over a hay bale immediately and catches herself on a festival banner. She's holding what appears to be a cosmic cocktail.
"Oh shit," you mutter.
She spots you. Her face lights up. She points dramatically, cocktail sloshing.
"YOU," she declares, volume set to "definitely causing a scene." "The hero! And the—" she squints at Azul, "the villain! Together! At a festival!"
The crowd is staring. You resist the urge to sink into the ground.
"Oh my gods," the Goddess continues, starting to tear up. "Oh my GODS. You're holding hands. Look at you. Look at this." She's actually crying now. Divine tears that sparkle as they fall. "I SHIP IT. I ship it so hard. This is beautiful. This is perfect. Character development. Enemies to lovers. Chef's kiss." She attempts a chef's kiss gesture and nearly drops her drink.
"We were never really enemies," you point out.
"DETAILS. Irrelevant details." She's stumbling closer now, squinting at both of you. "You're happy? Both of you? No fighting? No dramatic confrontations? No—" she hiccups, "—no chosen one bullshit?"
"We're good," you confirm.
"Very good," Azul adds, his hand tightening around yours. His ears are red. The Goddess is making him deeply uncomfortable and you find it endearing.
"Excellent. EXCELLENT." She raises her glass. "Then my work here is done. I choose good ones. Even when drunk. Especially when drunk. You're welcome for your boyfriend, by the way. Both of you. You're welcome for each other."
"Thanks?" you say, because what else do you say to that.
"I'm gonna go now. Got another festival in the east realm. Gotta point at someone." She starts to fade, then pauses. "Oh, wait. Almost forgot. You're both released from the prophecy thing. Narrative contract null and void. Go live your lives. Be boring. I support it."
"Wait, you can do that?" Azul asks.
"I'm a GODDESS. I can do whatever I want." She's almost fully transparent now. "Okay bye. Use protection. Divine blessings don't cover STDs."
She vanishes in a shower of sparkles that spell out "HAPPY 4 U BESTIE" before fading.
The crowd stares at the space where she was. Then at you. Then at Azul.
"So," you say into the silence. "Anyone want to pretend that didn't happen?"
The crowd, bless them, immediately returns to their festival activities. Years of dealing with divine intervention has made people very good at selective amnesia.
"We're released from the prophecy," Azul says quietly, like he's testing the words.
"Guess so."
"We don't have to be hero and villain anymore."
"We weren't really doing a great job of it anyway." You squeeze his hand. "Kind of failed spectacularly at the whole destined enemies thing."
"I had very detailed plans," he protests weakly.
"You had plans to steal my powers and instead you gave me a stable income and emotional support. Worst villain ever. I'm writing a bad Yelp review."
He laughs, leaning into your shoulder. "What do we do now?"
"Whatever we want, I guess. That's kind of the point of not having a destiny anymore." You press a kiss to his temple. "We could get festival food. You could judge the apple pie competition like you've been threatening to do. I could win you one of those terrible stuffed animals from the ring toss."
"That sounds perfect," he says softly.
And it is.
This isn't a typical hero-villain story. There's no betrayal, no backstabbing, no excessive drama. No final confrontation. No moment where the hero has to choose between love and duty because you chose both and found out they weren't actually in conflict.
No epic battle. No sacrifice. No last-minute redemption arc.
Just you and Azul, attending a festival, eating overpriced food, and occasionally stopping so he can fix your scarf when it slips.
This might honestly be a very boring hero's tale. Your greatest accomplishment is helping a man dressed as Santa get unstuck from a chimney, and you're not even sorry about it.
But who cares about boring when you can kiss your boyfriend in the middle of a crowded festival and watch him turn red and stutter even though you've been dating for months? Who cares about legendary when you have Azul trying to hide his smile against your shoulder because he's still not used to public affection but he likes it anyway?
Who cares about destiny when you can make your own choices?
"I love you," you say, because you can. Because he's here and warm and yours and neither of you are following a script anymore.
Azul looks up at you, eyes wide behind his glasses. His face does that thing where it cycles through several emotions before landing on soft and overwhelmed.
"I love you too," he whispers. "Even though you're terrible at being a hero."
"And you're terrible at being a villain."
"We're perfectly matched in our mediocrity."
"Exactly." You kiss him again, gentle and sweet, and he melts into it like it's the first time every time.
Around you, the festival continues. Music plays. People laugh. Somewhere, Floyd is probably terrorizing a festival game operator. Jade is definitely watching from the shadows and taking notes.
Sir Stabby is strapped to your back, silent witness to the least heroic hero story ever told.
And you're okay with that.
THE END
(Or: The Beginning of a Very Normal Life with Your Villain Boyfriend Who Still Can't Believe You Chose Him; Author: Sir Stabby the First)
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